Revolver as a musical entity can be best compared to the sequence in the movie Yellow Submarine where The Beatles are walking through the hall of many doors. As they open each of the doors they're exposed to a variety of unique encounters. Depending on the situation they either slam the door shut upon the realization that their observation may potentially bring a dangerous result, or they walk through the door with intrigue upon the conviction that “things aren’t always as they appear to be.”

I came into The Beatles' musical orbit in the early-seventies as a second-generation fan, growing up not with The Beatles as a functioning unit but with the four separate entities of John, Paul, George and Ringo. There was an interesting parallel universe discovering their music during this era of productive and successful former fabs, experiencing solo releases as they were charting while simultaneously being exposed to the group’s back catalog. As a newly-converted fan, every song was an uncharted adventure to my ears.

My first Beatles records were five Capitol singles excavated from the bottom of a younger neighbor kids’ toy box. But it was after I’d been given a few of their earlier albums from an older cousin's collection that my baptism-by-fabs officially occurred. Beatles records became my primary request for gift-receiving celebrations and holidays. Also, relatives of friends who knew I was a huge fan pawned-off 33s and 45s their family members no longer played with any regularity. “Give it to that Beatle friend of yours” was what I’d imagined they’d said; “He’ll like it!”

I would also use my portable cassette player to record songs from various local radio specials or when their movies appeared on local television. During this pre-digital/MP3/Internet/YouTube era, this required keeping an eye/ear out for when Help! would get slotted as the 3:30 afternoon movie (in truncated form) or when Yellow Submarine would make an appearance as a Saturday-night feature.

[Sidebar: When these Beatle-versions of Halley's Comet would eventually materialize, I would prop my Sears solid state "compact" cassette player (which was the size and weight of a small cinder block) up against the foot-stool and hold the nickel-sized microphone up to the just-a-bit-bigger-than-quarter-sized speaker whilst softly screaming at whoever was in the room to “Sshhhh!” This was definitely old school. That said, in this day and age of digital hi-def clarity, there are times when I wax nostalgic for the semi-tonic drone and buzz of the tubes that the microphone had picked up from our Zenith television or Grandma Minnie’s Silvertone console stereo/radio that were intertwined with my early Beatles listening experiences.]

Then there were the solo releases to consider as well. The “fin” Uncle Frank gave me while we were walking past the record department in Monkey Wards presented a major dilemma: do I buy Red Rose Speedway or Living in the Material World? Meet the Beatles or Abbey Road? Mind Games or Ringo? 1962-1966 or 1967-1970? Minutes turned into hours as I compared track listings across multiple rows of albums (bear in mind, there were now five sections in the record racks to flip through).

Looking back, it was a haphazard way to become initiated into The Beatles catalog – a mono Rubber Soul here, a cut-out Let It Be there, 45s from rummage sales ("Can't Buy Me Love" on Apple?) and self-recorded cassettes from television and radio. As second-generation fans, we didn’t have the coveted privilege that the initial gen had of experiencing first-hand the musical boundaries of pop and rock being one-upped and catapulted forward with every release of our musical heroes. So while I was excited about discovering this great group and exploring their seemingly-infinite number of recordings, I also felt a little cosmically ripped off; i.e. "Why couldn't I have been born sooner?" This was compounded by the fact that as a second-gen fan growing up in the 70's I was totally out-of-step with 98.6% of my peers ("You like The Beatles? Aren't they broke up?" scoffed the cooler kids with the Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd iron-on t-shirts).

As my Beatles record collection grew and gaps across their numerous eras started to fill in, I began to connect the chronological dots in their evolution as composers and musicians, from the ear-grabbing energy of “I Want To Hold Your Hand” to the instrumental and vocal intricacies of “Here Comes the Sun.” At some point in my fandom I decided to officially audit my Beatle record trove that had accumulated over a two-year period. Referencing the “For Your Information” sheet that had come with The Beatles 1962-1966 (the "Red" album to those unindoctrinated few), I came to the realization that I’d acquired a nearly complete collection; seems all I was missing was a few singles and two albums from their middle period. So with a $5 bill burning a hole in me pocket, off to the record store I went.

[Sidebar: Back in th'day, many of my peers would liken a simple visit to a record store to a musical excursion of archaeological-dig proportions. And is there anyone else who misses browsing through newly-sealed albums and getting that slight whiff of cellophane release as they are slowly parted away from each other? There was the well-finessed browsing technique itself that was refined over time, that ten-fingered performance of flipping through the albums with such aplomb, shifting from low gear to high gear, developing a sixth sense of knowing just when something was about to catch your eye. And the mutual respect that would occur if you were rack-jobbing next to an individual who was of the same caliber of album aficionado as you were; a nod would occur, like two pianists from the Philharmonic walking past each other backstage at Carnegie Hall. We would play the bins the way Liberace played a grand piano; with style, flash, and passion.]

Standing in front of The Beatles section, I held an LP in each hand; the emotional side of my brain battled with the logical side as I pondered which to make as my penultimate Beatles album purchase. Should it be Yesterday and Today or Revolver? I was already very familiar with half of the songs on Y&T, so from a gambler’s risk-assessment perspective I’ll definitely clear the “over” in the familiarity department. But I also already owned those hit songs on 45’s or on 1962-1966, so from an investment perspective I’m paying $2.495 of the $4.99 for what I already have, reducing my true ROI by nearly 50% (...and do I really need an album where Ringo has more songs than George?) So based on that objectivemotional analysis, the album I purchased was Revolver.

As per my routine back then (and to some extent, even now), after a tangible set of audio grooves was acquired, I bolted home to give it a listen. I still remember the effect the aroma of a newly-opened album had on me; the blend of freshly-unwrapped cellophane releasing the cover’s ink and record’s vinyl; sort of a Pavlov’s dog reaction in anticipation of experiencing a new record (vs. a "pre-played" hand-me-down disc). And like a fine wine, I could tell the difference between pristine and pickwick. As I looked over Revolver's stark black and white cover, with the collage of photos intertwined with these four very astute line-art illustrations (but with real eyes!), I sat back and listened.

My initial reaction made such an impression on me that I can still recall to this day. As side one became side two, nothing seemed to fit or flow together; every song was a completely different (and to me indifferent) experience, just like that whacked-out hallway in the movie Yellow Submarine. And aside from that later film’s title song and “Eleanor Rigby” I didn’t recognize a single other track, nor did I discover any lost gems (the way “If I Needed Someone” wooed me later on when I’d eventually pick up Yesterday and Today to finally complete my Beatles album collection). The whole record just sounded so – off.

George seemed to be sneering right at me to varying degrees in each of his three songs, a trilogy of “people who’ll screw you in the ground declaring the pennies on you eyes…maybe you’d understand.” Paul’s tracks were equally uncomfortable to listen to. Macca seemed to mock, whether it was on “Good Day Sunshine” (I’m happy and you’re not!”) or on “For No One” (“Stinks to be you!”). On “Here, There & Everywhere” he sounded almost delusionally possessive, a stalker’s lament under the guise of a love song (not unlike “Every Breath You Take” by The Police some 18 years later).

John’s two (US version) contributions were trip-fests to say the least. And scary ones at that. These weren’t the tranquil introspective ponderances of “Strawberry Fields Forever” or “Across the Universe” (tracks on albums that I’d already owned and loved). Yeesh, this was the guy at the party who was so out-of-his-gourd he would seemingly stare straight through you. A nonchalant glance in his direction would likely incur provocation; you knew it was best to just stay away from the dude. Even Ringo’s signature song seemed out-of-place within the context of this album’s running order: an animated tale of an underwater vessel sequenced between a stalker and a stoner.

One thing for sure, that cover absolutely represented the album. It was in-your-face stark-contrast black and white (especially taking into consideration that at that time of the original release the mass electronic media was becoming “in living color”). The overall effect came across as the ultimate Beatles kiss-off. Like us or leave us, we don’t care. We’re bigger than (you-know-who). As the final effects of “Tomorrow Never Knows” faded from my Realistic faux-quad system, I said to myself, “I think I just bought the first Beatles album I don’t like.” And with that, the album remained pretty much in near-mint, rarely-played condition in my collection for years to follow.

Throughout the balance of my late-70’s high-school years and early-80’s community college years, I probably played Revolver no more than twice a year, just to see if I’d missed anything. Nope. Still sounds – disconcerting (remember I was in college now; I not only owned a Thesaurus but knew how to use it). Although I’d eventually warmed to “Got To Get You into My Life” (a post-dissolution hit from 1976’s Rock and Roll Music compilation in the US) and “I Want To Tell You” (at minimum I felt the need to defend Hari from the multitude of fans of Ma Nugent’s son who erroneously thought brazen was always better), to my ears everything else on Revolver still sounded somewhat – arduous (wow). Give me A Hard Day’s Night or Abbey Road any day.

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During my university-era summers in the mid-80’s I worked at my uncle’s construction company. While the objective was to achieve some well-above-minimum wage earnings to help pay for college, it also provided a boost to my disposable income (which had reached levels befitting an audiophile of my self-perceived caliber). As a result, my electronic stereo components were upgraded accordingly. I had a most-awesome system with a turntable and stylus that produced great stereoscopic sounds from my handled-with-kid-gloves Moody Blues and Who albums (I’d treated my records much better as my equipment improved).

The problem was, I’d dare not subject my Beatles records to that equipment. I mean, some of those records had come from the bowels of neighbor kid’s toy chest. Or had rally-stripe surface scratches from being sandwiched into those wire-o album racks that were bolted into the bottom shelf of the hi-fi-combo stands of the day. Because of this fact, I hadn’t listened to a good portion of my Beatles albums in quite a while.

Around this time I discovered a non-chain locally-owned record store that catered to the record enthusiasts who coveted the hard-to-find rock stuff: indie albums, rare singles, import pressings, etc. Every city of a significant population likely had one. It was at this store that I first encountered the holy grail of Beatles recordings: The Beatles Collection (a.k.a. "The Blue Box"). Only available via import. Man it was heavy, like holding a museum-piece. The one in my hand was pressed in Australia, and as was the case for all non-US releases it contained the UK album tracking orders, the way The Beatles intended. And most importantly, it was of the high-quality pressing that imports had over domestic manufacturers. Beatle records I could actually play on my component system purchased for the premium listening experience. I-must-buy.

[Sidebar: As I write this, vinyl is making its retro-elite comeback, with popular/classic/indie artists' 120+ gram vinyl offerings being showcased on prominent end-caps, their esteemed and select newness put on a pedestal amongst the used racks of vintage pressings that have likely changed hands many times. I have mixed feelings about this, my main pain seeing the mediocre albums I sold back to Dog Ear Records in Libertyville for "fifty cents on the dollar" (thank you, Mr. Potter) now showing up as "pre-owned" authentics at 2x-3x what I originally paid for them. Really? This is Departure by Journey, not an original mono Pet Sounds! But I digress...]

The sonic superiority of the Blue Box import albums was amazing; I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Sgt Pepper’s was so full. Abbey Road was so spacious. Even the early stuff jumped out at me. Songs like “A Hard Day’s Night” and “Help!” sounded like I was right between their Vox amps in Studio Two. There were other discoveries as well. While the UK movie-related albums essentially had a similar feel and vibe as the US versions (even with Beatles performances replacing the US version's soundtrack instrumentals), Rubber Soul’s UK track listing presented a completely different experience and perspective of the band at this juncture as recording artists. The sequencing was a little jarring at first (me being more familiar to the US track listing) but wow, it packed a sonic punch. And then I came to Revolver. I realized it was time to give this one an unprejudiced re-listen. Maybe the import pressing upgrade would provide the audio enlightenment I’ve been missing all this time.

As I listened beginning-to-end in full, the album was – still so puzzlingly disparate. The only thing that seemed to make sense to me was that the three “extra” John tracks that were prematurely seized in the US to instead flesh out Yesterday and Today actually fit in perfectly on this UK-sequence mid-period mess-of-an-album.

It was while listening to UK Revolver on headphones that I heard it with my wanna-be audiophile ears; a quick speck of distortion during the chorus of “Eleanor Rigby” in the right channel, the result of the most minute of imperfections in the pressing. After shelling out nearly $200 bucks on my boxe du importe this was unacceptable, and when I returned to the record store I let the sales clerk know. “This album is defective” I said while handing the premium pressing over. He played the track on the store’s much-better-than-my-system system and looked at me quizzically ("Aha!", I thought, "he doesn’t get this album either!")

“Uh, what defect?” he said. I mentally stammered. You mean you don’t hear that little .025 second bit of distortion during the chorus of Eleanor Rigby in the right channel? “Um, there’s a little pop there in the chorus; I can hear it on headphones.” Sigh from the clerk. “OK, just pick out another copy.” But this was from an Australian box set I said. SIGH. “Well,” he said – between subtler sighs – “I guess just get one of the other import versions then.” I felt like a jerk but I’d heard what I heard: he offered to replace it with an equivalent pressing, so off to the Beatle bin I went.

While flipping through the Beatles import albums in search of a likely-non-Australian pressing to replace the you-gotta-be-kidding-me defective Revolver, I slowly became aware that while the Beatles Collection box set I had just recently purchased for a pretty pricey sum was indeed a complete UK album collection, it was not a complete Beatles album collection. Notice the emphasis in italics; makes all the difference in the world (a fact not lost on the many that had purchased this box set back in the day).

So, I’m staring at the import Magical Mystery Tour. Not in the blue box Beatles Collection. Hey Jude? Not in the box. I’m mentally calculating around twelve major hits across both of those albums. Regardless of the fact that these weren’t official UK albums released while the Beatles were technically a functioning group, how could you POSSIBLY label a box set as a Beatles Collection without including these records?

I can’t remember if there was another import version of Revolver in the stack. I think so. But at the time I’m looking at Hey Jude thinking that one title track at 7:11 will provide exponentially more listening pleasure than the three tracks that I’m even remotely content with on Revolver. So I do what any kid would do who was given an inch by a cooler-than-I-realized-at-the-time clerk: I ask for a yard. “Can I trade it for this one instead?” I asked as Hey Jude was held up to the clerk like a sacrificial imported vinyl lamb. S*I*G*H.

So I swapped my *defective* import pressing of Revolver for an import pressing of Hey Jude, which – notwithstanding the fact that my Collection was now actually lacking a key album release – in my mind actually made my set a more truly complete record collection. Form this same store (yep, they actually let me back in) I eventually picked up Magical Mystery Tour (die Deutsche import!) as well as the Collection of Beatles Oldies to flesh out my Beatles import set, before heading back to college in the fall.

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I graduated from university life a couple of years later, was offered a job in my field of study, and eventually got married. I still liked The Beatles, but it was no longer that all-encompassing association and immersion that defined me as a youth, re-living their history in retrospect. I was maturing, as an adult as well as a rock music lover, and as a result was transitioning my musical tastes out of the past and into the present.

My new favorite band was U2. Having been a fan since October (and picking up their earlier Ireland-only 45's at the same record store of yore as the Beatles Blue Box), for once I was along for the ride in "real time" with a contemporary band (vs. looking back with an “I wish I could’ve been there” perspective). When I eventually took the wrapper off of The Joshua Tree (and later Achtung Baby), I felt a little of what it must’ve been like to be a Beatles fan back in the 60’s, anticipating a new album with fresh ears and experiencing it within the context of their progression as artists, before it became a historical yardstick that everything (and everyone) before and after would be measured against.

Around this time compact discs became the de-facto delivery vehicle of recorded music. As any compulsive collector of Fabness my age and older experienced at least twice in their lifetime, it was once again time to start shelling out the Beatle bucks. So I began picking up their CDs (with the US releases now finally aligning with the UK-sequencing), starting with my favorites and working my way through the collection somewhat randomly just as I had all those years ago. As I listened to their earlier-period CDs, I realized that even though I had purchased the Blue Box set of vinyl albums, I hadn’t truly experienced their earlier releases within the context of their "as intended" UK track order. So with the serendipity of a shuffle program that gets it right, I began re-listening to The Beatles recordings on CD on a regular basis.

In providential alignment with my Beatles CD purchases, the magnificent Complete Recording Sessions book by Mark Lewisohn was released, chronicling every note The Beatles put to tape in the studio, from the Is-it-the-Ringo-version-or-the-Andy-White-version of "Love Me Do" to the erroneously left-at-the-end-of-the-spool “Her Majesty” that unintentionally became rock’s first hidden track. Then something else happened. I became re-energized as a Beatles fan. Not that I hadn’t not been a fan anymore, but a whole new appreciation for their musical abilities was unveiled to me. Maybe it was because I was now the (average) age they were at their swan song. Or that I wasn’t listening to their songs with the expectant repetition that had occurred previously with the US track sequences. Whatever the case, enough time had passed from my Beatleness immersion days that the overall impact of their music on CD sounded fresh. Was this some type of fandom-rebirthing process that us Beatlefans experience later in our lives?

At some point I bought the Revolver CD. I recall chuckling a bit upon holding it in my hand, at that moment remembering I technically still don’t have a complete Beatles blue box vinyl album collection (the “defective” import anecdote having been relegated to the basement of my memory bank with equal parts humor and embarrassment). Oh well, seems so insignificant now anyway with the clarity and portability of CDs. I came home and slid the jewel case into its chronological order within the collection. Obviously the Beatles album that I played the least isn’t going to get played anytime soon. And there it sat.

For a few minutes.

I pulled the CD out from the stack and stared at the cover. I turned it over to check out the track listing. It was almost as if I was truly unfamiliar with this album; like it was truly new to me. I unwrapped the plastic jewel case (crud, no immediate whiff of cellophane-encased vinyl; I hate CDs), flipped it open and put the silver disc in the player. The familiar raspy-throat count-off bellowed through my speakers, but something was different. And it wasn’t just a sonic difference. At first I couldn’t place it. But all I know was this opening song rocked, almost sounded...punk. Wait a second, what was that band that college friend of mine was into? The Jam, that’s it. Holy smokes, The Beatles had invented punk!

Once the raga-like lead guitar faded out from the album opener and the second song's string octet and multi-tracked harmonies attacked my lobes, it was as if Pandora’s Box was exploding right before my ears. Track by track there was intent to every song; not a single note was a throw-away. They were clearly on top of their game as musicians. And as composers never before or after on a single album were Paul and John so equally matched, song for song, mano a mano. Along with three of George’s heaviest contributions to date, it was like the Maclen Axis was in perfect compositional balance and the Beatles as musicians were rotating…wait…revolving in perfect motion around that axis*.

As I sat and listened to each track unfold and engage me like it hadn’t before, I came to the realization that it was my own naïve and self-imposed Beatlesfan barriers that hadn’t allowed me to fully understand and appreciate Revolver. I had dismissed it because I couldn’t pigeonhole it as “this” type of Beatles album or label it as “that” type of Beatles album. But eventually I realized it was because it was THE album. The disconnection I’d originally felt is what actually defined it. The way the seemingly-disparate tracks actually held together as a unit is what made it a statement. The Beatles album that I had listened to the least actually became the one I revere the most.

In the Beatles recording canon, there was before-Revolver and after-Revolver. In the rock music timeline, there was pre-Revolver and post-Revolver. It was like the splitting of the atom; everything before it was history; everything after it was unknown.

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*To take this compositional equilibrium another step further, program “Rain” after “Love You To” and “Paperback Writer” after “Dr. Robert” for an integrated set of bonus tracks within this pinnacle era of Beatle recordings.